


A Burning Kind of Ember

by BeingAPartOfSomethingSpecial



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Grantaire Angst, Light Angst, Multi, Non-Binary Jehan, Reincarnation AU, Soulmate AU, aromantic jehan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7580683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeingAPartOfSomethingSpecial/pseuds/BeingAPartOfSomethingSpecial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reincarnation au where no one realises but Grantaire - or so he thinks - but it’s kind of like a faded kind of knowledge, like a film you watched years ago or a quote you can half remember from a book.</p><p>And then all of a sudden it’s over. He can breath and the images are already disappearing, he tries to stop them but they’re like smoke, disintegrating in his mind as quickly as they came. The only thing left is the words. Two simple words. Two simple words in a language he doesn’t speak. Two simple words that he understands nonetheless. Permets-tu?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Burning Kind of Ember

Grantaire wakes up groggily, reaching for the bottle rested precariously on his bedside table because nothing kills a hangover quite like even more alcohol. Joly disagrees but 'what does he know?' Grantaire thinks sourly, as he tries to sit up enough to be able to drink. He takes a long swig and then, once the room has stopped spinning and the pounding in his head has reduced to a dull throb, he drags himself out of bed and lazily grabs at the clothes strewn across his floor. After finally managing to locate a pair of jeans not completely covered in paint, he struggles into them without spilling a drop of the cheap red wine, and stumbles into his living room carrying his t-shirt loosely in his hand.  
Yawning heavily and stretching his arms out above his head, he is unsurprised to find Joly and Bossuet draped over each other like dysfunctional cats on his sofa. 

"Oi," he says with a grin, whipping his shirt against Joly's back, "up you both get." He pulls his t-shirt on as Joly and Bossuet attempt to untangle themselves from both each other and the ridiculous fluffy green blanket that had been chucked haphazardly over them. Joly tumbles gracelessly off of the sofa as Bossuet sits up without thinking, and glares up at them both as they begin to laugh. Bossuet's laugh is loud and bright and joyful despite the sleep still clinging to his eyes but Grantaire's is more reserved, almost cut-off, as if he starts to laugh and then remembers all the reasons why he shouldn't.

"Bossuet," Joly says faux-sharply, the wide grin softening the jagged edges. Bossuet continues to laugh but reaches out a hand for Joly to grab. Joly curls his fingers through Bossuet's and begins to pull himself up. He latches onto the sofa and signals for Grantaire to get his cane from where it was leaning against the coffee table. Grantaire picks it up and places it next to him, Joly thanks him quickly.

"Come on guys," Grantaire says with a brief laugh as Joly settles himself comfortably against his boyfriend's side, Bossuet's arm wrapped warmly around his waist fingers resting gently against his outer thigh. "You, Joly, need to sober up and get to your placement. And you Bossuet..." he pauses and looks carelessly at the time on his phone, "need to be in a lesson in... five minutes ago."

Bossuet swears softly as he scrambles to stand up, grabbing the bag resting against the wall by the door and saluting them both sloppily before leaving quickly, his hand over his head. Grantaire turns to Joly and sees the adoration spilling over his face.

"You two are ridiculous," he says with a half-hearted grin, mostly happy for his friends but also slightly envious of the relationship they share. 

He has only known these two boys for a few months, they met when Bossuet had stood on him at a bar and spilt beer down his chest in their shared first week of university. Despite this, Grantaire often feels like he has known these people forever, mostly he just attributes it to how well they fit together. A kind of metaphorical 'forever'. But then sometimes he will remember something that they've done, an adventure they've had, that feels so real but that Joly and Bossuet have absolutely no recollection of - like the story about the wine, the woman and the giant chocolate cake. But, because as they often feel fuzzy - kind of blurry - like a film you remember watching years ago or a half-remembered quote from a long-forgotten book, Grantaire calls them the wild imaginations of his drink-addled brain and brushes them under the carpet.  
However, if Grantaire allows himself to focus on these images he can see them more clearly but as they are not always happy, he prefers to ignore them. 

 

And, for a long time, it is possible for him to do that. He continues to live his life as if he doesn't feel like he's missing something - or at least, not something that he can't fill with alcohol or a willing partner - and he is, whilst not quite happy, almost content. He studies and he paints and he spends time with Joly and Bossuet. 

He then begins to spend increasingly less time with Joly and Bossuet as they spend increasingly more time with a young waitress from the cafe just off of the campus. Grantaire is, again, happy for them and he gladly hears them talk about the sweetness of her laugh or the sharpness of her tongue but he can't help but feel slightly jealous. They have each other and now they also have someone else, they were full where he is empty and yet still they get more. 

When Joly and Bossuet ask him to join them at their student social justice meeting, he almost refuses out of spite before he realises quite what a stupid decision that would be.  
"This is so exciting!" Joly squeals as he grabs both Grantaire's and Bossuet's hands and drags them towards the Musain where the meeting is. "Not only can we share this with you - I think you'll really enjoy it if you give it a chance - but you'll also be able to meet Musichetta, she's working tonight!" Grantaire allows himself to be dragged through the door into the quaint little cafe - not at all the kind of place one would plan a revolution of any kind but that is what Grantaire gets a feeling of as he enters - and straight to the counter without a second to catch his breath. 

"Musichetta, 'Chetta," he calls to the young woman making coffee, her dark hair twirled up into a plait against the back of her head. She turns as she hears his voice and smiles brightly, her smile rivals even Bossuet's, she steps forwards and reaches across the counter to grab first Joly's shirt and then Bossuet's to drag them in for kisses maybe not entirely appropriate for a coffee shop.

"This is the guy we were talking about," Bossuet says with a loose gesture in Grantaire's general direction. "Grantaire."

"Please call me R," he says quietly, almost inaudibly but she manages to catch it because she turns that gorgeous smile on him and he takes a sharp intake of breath at how familiar she looks. But, he calls it Joly and Bossuet's descriptions and refuses to examine it any further.

"R it is then," her voice is soft and melodic, a rhythmic dip and rise that entranced the ear and makes Grantaire want to smile regardless of the previous stab of envy. "I've heard so much about you."

"And I you," he replies with a slight grin, one side of his mouth pulling up more than the other, giving his smile a kind of crooked feel. She laughs and it is as bright as her smile, her brown eyes seem to glow as she does so, threads of gold shooting through them. 

"All good I hope," she grins and he nods in response. "Are you here for the ABC meeting? Joly and Bossuet keep asking me to come but I'm always working."

"I don't know why I'm here really, it's not like I'll be any help anyway," he says self-deprecatingly. Joly tilts his head at him and the look filling his eyes is one of hurt and disappointment. Grantaire's eyebrows draw down towards his eyes as he mouths 'well, it's true' to him. Musichetta gives him a soft smile, a maternal smile, and her eyes flicker welcomingly.

"I'm sure you'll be a great help," she says, pointing to a poster behind him, he turns slightly to look at it and sees a gaudy red and black image advertising Les Amis de l'ABC, he cringes a little and turns back to Musichetta. "Joly says you're an artist, maybe you could help with their posters?" 

Grantaire nods to her, his smile spreading more across his face. The three of them continue to chat for a little while and whilst they all try to include Grantaire, he is happy to simply watch them. The envy evaporates as he sees them interacting, it wouldn't work with just Joly and Bossuet, he realises happily, they need all three to balance them out. It's not that they have more than they deserve, but instead precisely what they need. 

As more people begin to file into the cafe and through to a backroom which Grantaire catches a glimpse of as the door swings open, Joly and Bossuet finally pull themselves away from Musichetta and turn to Grantaire. Joly reaches out his hand and curls it around Grantaire's larger one. They make their way past the maze of tables and into the backroom, Bossuet leads them to a table at the back and settles himself down happily in one of the large armchairs. Grantaire looks around and then perches cautiously on the chair next to him. He looks around at the people dotted around the room, there is a girl sitting on a high-backed chair on the other side of the room, her dark hair falling heavily over her black-rimmed eyes, the dress she is wearing falls in delicate folds of thick black material and her legs where they appear from the bottom of the dress are slim and pale. But it is her eyes that Grantaire focuses on, her eyes that are the most beautiful shade of brown he has ever seen, rich dark pools contrasting wildly with her fair skin. However, Grantaire thinks, she looks somehow sad, melancholy, almost like she is waiting for something that she has already lost faith in. 

He shakes his head and turns to the rest of the room. The people in the room feel the same kind of scarily-familiar as Joly and Bossuet did. The pretty, melancholy girl... the tall dark-skinned boy draped over a large sofa with a book about moths balanced precariously on his chest... the boy with the wild mane of curls talking loudly with a voice full of money - to quote a great literary work, Grantaire thinks with a wry smile - and the person with flowers braided into their soft ginger hair. They all seem familiar, like he has met them all before, not simply their appearances, that he would merely chalk up to coincidental meetings around the university campus, but also their voices, their interests, their... auras. Grantaire feels ridiculous even thinking such a thing so he shakes his head and decides to ignore it, Joly and Bossuet probably talked about them, it doesn't matter anyway, and he needs a drink. 

He stands up suddenly, his knee knocking against the table, and walks out of the room and over to counter. Every cafe that opens this late serves alcohol, he thinks, looking around as he waits for Musichetta to finish up another person's order. She turns to him and smiles brightly. He tries to smile but it falls flat, he mumbles something about wine and in seconds has a bottle of red pressed into his hands. He tries once more to smile at her, but when it fails, he nods and returns to his seat in the small room. He lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a long, slow gulp, feeling the thick liquid fill his mouth and slide slowly down his throat. He focuses on the sensation until Joly pokes his side carefully and points forwards. Grantaire looks around and sees that everyone is focused on the front of the room; even the curly-haired boy is quiet. 

There is a boy standing at the front, a blond boy with eyes of fire, burning into Grantaire's soul as he speaks. What he is saying has no real effect on Grantaire, we're all doomed anyway, he thinks moodily, but the way he is saying it and his deep, rich voice create images of a different room... a different room but with the same people and the same haunting voice...

As he sits there trying to place the voice, images begin to invade his mind. Blurry, half-formed pictures of anger and desire, of fire and guns, of red flags and screams. The thoughts overwhelm him, filling every part of his head and invading his other senses, clogging his nose with the cloying scent of blood and his mouth with words from a long-forgotten dream, in his ears he hears the sounds of singing, bright clear voices singing about a new world, a new, happier world. His breathing is rapid, coming in short sharp bursts, painful to push from his lungs to my mouth, like his throat is full of something thick and heavy, his chest constricts painfully once, twice, three times. 

And then all of a sudden. It’s over. He can breath and the images are already disappearing, he tries to stop them but they’re like smoke, disintegrating in his mind as quickly as they came. The only thing left is the words. Two simple words. Two simple words in a language he doesn’t speak. Two simple words that he understands nonetheless. Permets-tu? 

He whispers them to himself reverently, repeating them over and over again in an attempt to understand. Permets-tu? Permets-tu? Permets-tu? What did it mean? No, he knows what it means, he just doesn't understand why? Bossuet looks at him in concern, his hand reaching out to touch Grantaire's arm, he startles and looks down at the hand.  
"Grantaire," he whispers, squeezing his arm carefully. "Grantaire, it's over, come talk to them. They're all lovely people." He nods and stands cautiously, his legs shaking slightly as he presses his feet against the ground. Everything around him feels distant, blurry, like he's looking at something underwater, everything seems to shimmer and twist together, the people's voices coming from far, far away. Bossuet walks him over to the dark-skinned boy with the book about moths. 

"This is Grantaire," he says softly, gesturing to him. Grantaire can't help but feel a bit like a burden; Bossuet should be off talking to his friends, not baby-sitting his drunk arse. "Grantaire, this is Combeferre." 

Grantaire makes his mouth form the name; it feels both familiar but also strange. Like a name he remembers from long ago, he thinks about it for a second but his head begins to fill with images again so he quickly shakes his head to dispel them. 

"Hello," he says carefully, forcing his brain to focus, "call me R." The boy laughs and Grantaire looks at him in confusion, he doesn't understand what's funny? Combeferre sees his confusion and tries to backtrack.

"The pun," he says quickly, his mouth stumbling slightly over the words in his desire to get them out. "I was laughing at the pun."

Grantaire nods slowly, finally understanding, most people don't get it so he isn't used to people laughing it. He doesn't really know why he uses it, it's not like he speaks the language or has any connection to it... or so he thought before tonight... the two words flash into his mind again. Permets-tu? Permets-tu? Perme-

He shakes his head and turns back to Combeferre. He thanks him quickly and asks him a question about his book. The boy begins to talk rapidly and happily about something that Grantaire loses interest in very quickly. But, he stays focused enough to ignore the words in his head. Combeferre cuts himself off in the middle of his sentence and grins wryly at Grantaire, one side of his mouth pulling up slightly more than the other giving it a slightly self-deprecating feel. 

"I'm sorry, I'm talking too much," he says with a quick, short bark of laughter and a glance over his shoulder to where the blond boy is talking animatedly to the boy with the wild curls. "My boyfriend's always saying I ramble when I start talking about moths." 

Grantaire's throat constricts painfully. Of course he already has a boyfriend, he thinks sadly, and even if he didn't it's not like he would want me. Combeferre begins talking again and Grantaire shakes his head and focuses on what he's saying.

"... the one with the curls," he finishes; Grantaire looks back at where the blond is standing with the shorter boy, Combeferre smiles softly. "Come meet him?" 

Grantaire inhales sharply and then carefully nods, following Combeferre when he waves him over. He walks quickly and almost trips, swearing quietly at himself as he does so.  
"This is my boyfriend," he says, wrapping his arm tightly around the short boy with the dark curls and grinning widely at Grantaire. "Courfeyrac." Grantaire hums under his breath, looking over at the blond boy. He's glowing, just as he was when he was talking, but it's a quieter sort of glowing, like the final embers as a fire dies down or the flicker of a candle as you blow it out. 

"Hiya!" the curly-haired boy says with a grin, tucking himself under Combeferre's shoulder. "Call me Courf, please! Don't listen to this guy."

Grantaire smiles back, it is slightly self-deprecating as he drags his eyes away from the blond boy. "Hey," he says softly. "Call me R, I guess." 

Courfeyrac grins widely at him and reaches out a hand for him to shake; it is firm and familiar and, somehow comforting. The grin is the same, bright and happy, the kind of happy that can't be faked. A true, honest kind of joyfulness that fills his face and lights up his brown eyes. I want to paint him, Grantaire thinks. It's strange; he hasn't thought that in so long, not really, not since he met Joly and Bossuet for the first time. But this meeting is full of people he wants to paint, or draw or simply just get down onto paper regardless of the medium. Courfeyrac should be painted, he muses, oil paints probably, something bold and bright and wild. Combeferre is much softer, charcoal perhaps. The person with the flowers in their hair that Joly had told him was called Jehan deserved watercolours, delicate and light to catch the ethereal-ness of them. He shakes his head and tries to drag himself back to the conversation as Courfeyrac touches his arm gently. 

"Sorry," he says lowly, forcing himself to look at Courfeyrac and Combeferre, to keep his eyes off of the bright glow. Grantaire had the blond boy pegged as the leader but so far, he has been quiet and reserved, Courfeyrac doing most of the talking - not that that surprises Grantaire either. "I was a bit lost in my mind."

"We all get a bit like that sometimes," Courfeyrac laughs, his cheerfulness infectious as a dazzling giggle bubbles from his mouth. "I was just saying that Joly mentioned that you were an artist! Is it true? Oh, that's amazing, you have to meet Jehan, they will absolutely love you!" Grantaire nods shyly, feeling vaguely taken aback by the explosion of feeling. Combeferre lets out a quick burst of laughter before shushes his boyfriend gently, pressing his finger softly against his lips. Grantaire smiles and turns away slightly to give them some privacy, and also to quell the building boil of envy rising in his stomach. It wasn't even that he begrudged them their happiness, but just that he felt like he could never have that so people could be slightly more sympathetic.

His eyes catch on the blond boy's blue ones, he's taken a step away from the happy couple who are still gloriously wrapped up in each other, now whispering sweetly to each other and grinning privately. The other boy's lips quirk up slightly at the edges as he nods his head in their direction and rolls his eyes. He takes a couple of small, shuffling steps forwards until he is right in front of Grantaire, he holds out his hand cautiously and smiles, it is a soft smile but his eyes are still burning with the fire from before, the wild untamed masterpiece. Even as he tries, Grantaire cannot envisage how he would put this beautiful boy onto paper, he transcends all mediums that Grantaire thinks of; he is always somehow... more.

"Enjolras," he says shortly, his back is straight and his shoulders are aligned. He reminds Grantaire of a soldier, but only for a second, then an image flashes in his mind of a red coat and red flag and a pile of shoddy furniture. He shakes the thought away and reaches out his own hand to shake Enjolras'. His hand presses against warm skin and Enjolras smiles. 

"Grantaire," he replies, Enjolras' shoulders drop and he squeezes Grantaire's hand almost unnoticeably, there is a flicker of recognition in his blue eyes and for a second Grantaire doesn't feel so alone, he thinks that maybe - just maybe - someone else understands. He holds his breath, waiting for Enjolras to say something, anything. But then, in the next breath, it's gone. Emotions flash across Enjolras' face as quickly and suddenly as gunshots - that thought sits badly with Grantaire so he banishes it from his mind and focuses on the boy in front of him - confusion followed by a sharp stab of anger and then, then it's over. The hand is wrenched from his and the fire is whirling across the room to talk to someone else, his back resolutely to Grantaire a clear sign of his frustration. That stings but what stings more is everybody turning to look at him with judgement clear on their faces, wondering what he could have possibly done to piss their leader off so expertly. Grantaire glares down at his feet and tries to leave quickly, but he is stopped by a tall, broad-shouldered man standing in his way holding a couple of bottles of beer out in front of him. 

"Bahorel," he says with a grin, handing the opened bottle to Grantaire and slinging an arm companionably over his shoulder. "You're Grantaire, we should call you R and you really need a drink. Am I right?" Grantaire allows himself a grin and even a short bark of laughter as he nods. He is dragged over to where Joy and Bossuet are sat with a tall, slim man with a pointed chin and intelligent eyes. Bahorel reaches over to ruffle his hair as they get to them, introducing him quickly as Feuilly before taking a seat next to him and throwing his arm around his neck. Joly pulls him down onto the sofa next to him and tries to ask him what he said to Enjolras; he shakes his head and takes a long drag from the beer. 

He stays for a while longer, chatting amiably to Bahorel and Feuilly and avoiding questions from Joly and Bossuet. The relationship that Bahorel and Feuilly have is nothing like Grantaire has ever seen before; it's not a suffocating kind of love and it's also not like Joly and Bossuet's - and Musichetta, he guesses - kind of love either. It's easy and good-humoured with promises of trips to the gym followed by freshly-baked brownies. Bahorel insists on calling Feuilly 'bro' despite the fond eye-roll he receives every time. It is sweet and sharp and romantic in a way that Grantaire has never even contemplated... and he loves it. 

After a few hours, he bids his farewells, waves off Joly's worried offers to come home with him and makes his way out the door, waving quickly to Musichetta as he passes her. As he steps out into the cold night air he is hit by a sense of freedom, of something being lifted from him... but also of something being given to him. He has no idea what it is but his fingers itch for a pencil or a paintbrush or anything to put it onto paper. When he reaches his flat, he is still tipsy - Bahorel kept handing him more beers - but not as drunk as he would like to be. On a normal night, at this point, he would grab a bottle of wine from the kitchen and attempt to get some art done. But this is not a normal night. Tonight, he thinks I'll skip the bottle. He reaches for a paintbrush and sets his canvas up in front of him, sitting down in front of it and pulling the paints towards him before abandoning the brush and going into the kitchen to grab a bottle of red. He's got two hands and he's determined to use at least one of them to shorten his life expectancy. 

He goes back to the canvas and picks up the brush again and begins to paint, he is engrossed in seconds and sits there staring avidly, biting his lip in concentration until the pale pink of dawn begin to filter through the cheap blinds he stuck over the windows to block some of the light. When he sees the light, he stands up, purposefully avoiding looking at the canvas, he goes to the toilet and then walks back to the sofa in a trance-like state and continues to paint for most of that day as well. He doesn't remember falling asleep but he is awoken by his phone hours later, just as the sun is beginning to dip low in the sky. He is too distracted to focus on his phone past a quick glance to see that it's Joly. He is too distracted by the canvas in front of him, it is messy and careless but it is easy enough to pick out Enjolras and his friends, dressed like they're from a different time - Enjolras in that red coat he imagined before - strewn out across some kind of hill of furniture, tall building rising up on either side of them. It doesn't make any sense at all but it feels right, and whilst they don't look happy in it, they look determined. It is this look of determination that leaves a bad taste in his mouth - even if he doesn't fully understand why - it is this look that makes him reach for the bottle again and, on finding it empty, stumbling to the kitchen for another. He presses his hand against the back of his neck and twists it from one side to the other, it aches from where he must have had it leant against the back of the sofa. He takes a long swig and avoids looking at the canvas whilst also staring at it from the corner of his eye. 

They are all so recognisable. Enjolras by his blond locks and the fire surrounding him, Courfeyrac by his wild mess of curls, Combeferre by the thin glasses rested on a sharp nose. He shakes his head and lifts the canvas carefully, carrying it to his bedroom and placing it carefully against the wall. He tries to banish it from his mind and goes back to where his phone is lying on the sofa. I should probably call Joly back, he thinks, already pulling up his contacts and tapping his number.

"Grantaire? Is that you?" he asks frantically. Grantaire rolls his eyes at this and replies in the affirmative. "Why did you ignore my call? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he says softly, trying to placate him. "I just got caught up painting. I'm sorry."

"Ooooh." He knows he hasn't been painting as much recently and he does feel lighter after picking up a brush. "Can we see it?" Grantaire takes a sharp intake of breath.  
"It's... ummm... not finished," he stammers. Grantaire can hear the smile in Joly's voice as he agrees to wait. He knows that Joly and Bossuet care about him, but he is reminded every time in a very tangible way when they tell him how amazing his art is or how special he is. He doesn't really know how he ended up with these people but he does know that he is one of the luckiest people alive. 

 

Despite the sting from Enjolras' rejection, Grantaire continues to attend the meetings with Joly and Bossuet. He goes, he listens and he avoids Enjolras. He sits with Bahorel and Feuilly, drinking and chatting. 

He is dragged to one of the meetings by Cosette, she overheard Joly talking to him about it outside of the art room at the university and decided that it was her kind of thing. Whilst there, she also seems to decide that Marius is also her kind of thing. Marius stumbles over his words and turns bright red almost as soon as Cosette enters the room, and turns even redder when she begins talking to him. Grantaire lounges against the sofas available for Les Amis' meetings and laughs softly. 

It is after this particular this meeting that Grantaire stops avoiding Enjolras, he goes up to the front at the end of the talk to 'chat to Courf'. Courfeyrac grabs Enjolras' wrist to stop him for walking away, forcing him to stand there whilst he talks to him. Enjolras is too polite to ignore him completely but his replies are monosyllabic and he refuses to make eye-contact. So Grantaire - however childish he knows it is - begins to insult the speech that Enjolras had made that evening. He shoots down the idea that anything they do will make any kind of difference to society. He knows that it is ridiculous but he also desires the attention, the full fire of Enjolras on him.

He forces himself to continue to go to the meetings, and he forces himself to continue to argue with Enjolras. To begin with he merely goes up to Enjolras at the end of the meeting and tears his argument to shreds, but in time he gains confidence as Enjolras begins to react more and soon he is arguing during the meeting, interrupting Enjolras' flow of speech to argue against him. Soon though, Joly drags him into actually helping with some flyers or posters or some kind of advertisement. He manages to pull something together in the last couple of days before the speeches that Enjolras and Les Amis had planned to protest against the university's decision to fire a young, ambitious female professor on the grounds of her being 'too left-wing'. Grantaire understands their anger but he doesn't think that a group of students - also branded 'too left-wing' - yelling about it is really going to help. But then, as Enjolras is fond of saying, he is simply a cynic with a drinking problem. So, really, what does he know? 

 

But, at Joly's insistence, he completes the flyers. 

He is suddenly woken up by a rapid banging on the door. He is shocked awake and clambers sleepily out of bed, scrabbling for the bottle on his desk and taking a swig as he walks to the door. "OK," he yells as the banging continues. "I'm coming, god!" 

The banging stops. Grantaire sighs blissfully at the silence and scrubs his hand over his face. He opens the door to find Enjolras. He freezes, his hand still in the air as if ready to knock again. Grantaire looks down, and blanches as he realises that he didn't pull on any clothes before answering the door. Enjolras coughs politely and Grantaire spins on his heel and walks resolutely back into his room. He stumbles back out after shoving his legs into a worn pair of jeans, shrugging a t-shirt on as he turns to Enjolras.  
"Can I help you?" he asks impatiently as Enjolras stares at him blankly. Enjolras shakes his head and looks away from him. He begins to talk but stutters over it, he shakes his head again and narrows his eyes.

"Joly mentioned about the flyers and I thought I'd come find how they were going," he says, avoiding Grantaire's eyes. Grantaire shakes his head and snorts in disdain.  
"Why now Enjolras?" he snaps, the anger rising in his stomach. "You haven't made any effort up until this point. So, why now?" Enjolras takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and pausing.

"Courfeyrac told me that I had to make more of an effort with you because apparently up until now I've been a bit of a dick," he says quietly, still avoiding looking at Grantaire. Grantaire rolls his eyes but gestures for Enjolras to continue. "I just... I don't know... I just... Can I see the flyers now?" 

Grantaire rolls his eyes again but turns to walk into his bedroom to grab them. When he turns to go back to Enjolras waiting in the living room, he is surprised to see him standing just inside his room. He is staring at something. Grantaire follows his gaze and finds the painting he'd completed months ago. Enjolras' mouth is hanging open and his eyes are transfixed. 

"Either we're both crazy, or neither of us are," tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it. He seems shocked by his own admission. Grantaire looks up and their eyes meet. Time stops. They are bombarded by hundreds of images. But the images are no longer blurred. They are crisp and sharp and so clear that they could be memories of the day before. They hit with such force that Grantaire physically stumbles backwards a few paces before managing to right himself.

Enjolras' reaches out towards him as one may reach out to a skittish puppy, his hand curling gently around his wrist. When he speaks, his voice is soft and quiet, the opposite of the rich deep voice that Grantaire remembers but it is still completely perfect.

Two simple words.  
"Permets-tu?"

 

The two of them rush to the Musain after a hastily pulled together semi-meeting. Enjolras tugs Grantaire up to the front of the room, fingers tightly intertwined together. The words begin to spill from his mouth, words like reincarnation and France and revolution and memories. Combeferre stands slowly as Enjolras runs out of breath, inhaling deeply. He walks towards him and touches his wrist slightly.

"Enjolras, darling, we know," he says softly, gesturing to their group of friends frozen around the room. "Courfeyrac and I have known for the longest, since we met at school."

"Then us," says Bahorel brightly, grinning proudly and throwing his arm over Feuilly's shoulders. "We were next."

"We didn't get the full thing until we met Musichetta," Joly says next, his voice soft and reverential. Grantaire's fists clench as he looks at them all.

"Why didn't you mention it?" he snaps, glaring at Joly but talking to everyone. "I thought I was going mental and now you tell me that you all already know? Why the fuck didn't you say anything?"

"Grantaire, how were we supposed to know you already kind of knew?" Bossuet replies sharply, slipping his arm around Joly and pulling him against his side. "No one else kind of knew before meeting their person - or in our case, people." 

"What're you on about?" Grantaire asks, fists unclenching as he realises how tense Joly is. He untangles his hand from Enjolras' and steps towards them. His voice is low and quiet as he mumbles apologies to Joly for raising his voice. "What person?"

"Ferre and Courf? Rel and Feuilly? Me, Joly and Chetta when we all met? Cosette and Marius that day when Sette first came along to a meeting?" Bossuet's voice is low and soft as he tries to get Grantaire to work it out. "Notice anything?" 

Grantaire's eyebrows knit firmly together as he thinks, he looks over his shoulder to Enjolras. The blond makes his way forwards and wraps his arm around Grantaire's waist, pressing a soft kiss to his dark curls. Shrugging, Grantaire sighs unhappily, feeling like he's failed his friends. 

Marius's voice is quiet when he interjects, "we just kind of guessed that it was a true love kind of thing." Grantaire leans slightly away from Enjolras to look up at him. Enjolras' breathy 'oh' is the only sound in the silent room. A soft smile drifts over Grantaire's face, pulling at his lips and making his eyes sparkle.

 

It doesn't fix everything and it doesn't make everything better but it sure does change things. He looks around at the group of people in front of him. People that he feels like he's known forever, and with this new information that makes more sense. But that's not all of it. The past life thing obviously makes sense but there is also the overwhelming acceptance of everyone. He had felt instantaneously enveloped in the bright warmth of this incredible group of people. And now, settling Enjolras more comfortably against his chest where they're draping themselves over a sofa in the Musain, he thinks that maybe - just maybe - he will get to feel like this for a very long time.

**Author's Note:**

> I have lots of ideas for this if anyone is interested:  
> Combeferre/Courfeyrac  
> Marius/Cosette  
> Éponine gets it from Marius but he has to wait for Cosette  
> Bahorel/Feuilly  
> Aromantic Jehan needs everyone together before they get the memories back - platonic soulmates instead
> 
> feel free to come and cry over dead revolutionaries with me on tumblr @r-and-his-apollo


End file.
